A Sissy Saga Ch. 09

Miriam Hancock arose in the morning alone but feeling joyous and revitalised. But when her early toilet had been done her smile faded, and she frowned. On the dressing table lay the fat envelope she'd received that morning from the lawyers employed by Lady Diana. It enclosed a letter that was dreadfully succinct.

'... Our client as brought to our attention that her husband, Lord Chance-Barton, provided you with a substantial loan of money some time ago. Since no written agreement was made you mistakenly believed this loan to be a gift, however, we are instructed that this was never meant to be the case. Lady Diana regrets the misinterpretation and makes clear that it was not entirely your fault. She trusts you implicitly and without reservation, but to forestall any future misunderstanding she feels the loan should be now made formal, with the usual rates of interest applying. We therefore request that you sign and return to us the enclosed documentation ratifying this arrangement. Your co-operation in expediting this matter swiftly would be... blah, blah, blah, tum-ti- tum-ti-tum ...'

It was a message of doom as far as she was concerned. The last thing in the world she needed at that stage in developing Fairyfield Grange was to be shackled by a large debt, and the amount quoted was very large.

She'd read the letter intensely, weighing every word, searching for some clause that may have been fudged enough to allow her some hope of wriggling out from its consequences. Of course it was hopeless. Every condition was meticulously constructed and absolutely watertight.

She'd not signed anything yet. To sanction the debt would strip away her independence and make her a vassal to the aristocratic bitch-woman, but not to sign was certain to enrage Lady Diana and put the future of her school in jeopardy. It would also destroy any hope for the life of gentility she nursed. Who could she call-on for assistance if the matter were taken to law?

Initially she'd thought to seek some support from her sponsors, but she'd revised that idea and now hated it. They were a gutless load of mealy-mouthed wimps when reminded of the things she had arranged for them in Harrogate, and if she herself could scare them so easily their jittery nerves would undoubtedly crack under the kind of pressure Lady Diana could lay-on. She couldn't rely on any of them, and as for appealing directly to Lord Chance-Barton himself to take her side, of that she despaired. He had as much backbone as a blancmange when confronted by his wife, and while raising no objections to his perverse pastimes Diana overruled him in everything that encroached on her own interests.

There was something about Lady Diana that was deeply unlikeable, and she kept trying to think who she reminded her of. Various memories stirred and the image of Miss Cromwell, the headmistress of her first prep-school loomed. 'Ah, Miriam,' the woman had announced, having called her into her office one morning after assembly. 'I imagine they do things rather differently where you - er - come from, but here a cross draped about the neck is intended to draw attention to ones faith, not to ones bosom. There is an excellent underwear department at British Home Stores; kindly avail yourself of it.' Miss Cromwell herself clearly did; her own bra could have withstood a siege.

Then there was the lady chairperson of the Roundtree Hill Conservative Party. It was just after Miriam had married and when her husband declared an interest in becoming a Member of Parliament. That meant herself having to undergo scrutiny. The chairperson had expressed a wish to meet the young wife of their proposed parliamentary candidate, so Miriam Hancock had duly worn powder-blue and invited her to tea.

'It was refreshing...' the woman had said (she meant depressing), to have a wife with the common touch to accompany 'their' candidate on the hustings, especially one who dressed so elegantly ( she meant her skirt was disgustingly short, but no more than could be expected from a girl with a working-class background). And no doubt the Hancock family would soon be blessed with offspring - 'their' party was of course the party of family values ( in other words, start breeding Tories), and children are such invaluable anchors to a busy political life (they keep all the trollops at home changing nappies). Lady Diana was one of those creatures - a hybrid of women whose knives were sheathed in a smile. Selfish in her sinecure life she was intent on making Miriam Hancock a mere employee who she could dump if things went tits up.

Men were equally as disappointing, her failed marriage having confirmed her poor opinion of them long ago. The only positive thing to come out of the brief union with her husband had been her daughter - of course her son, too - but mostly Jennifer, every bit a mothers girl, who appeared to have inherited her own dominant streak and probably applied it even more stridently than she did herself. She never tolerated nonsense from anyone. Yes, in addition to everything else there was a certain amount of family pride teed up in being able to say no to Lady Diana - but, how could she do it without risking ruin? How? How to do it?

Showing little concern for the violation he'd suffered the previous evening Poppy presented himself in the sitting room at four minutes to eight the following morning. His encounter with Miss Hancock had been slightly traumatic at the time because it had been unexpected, but he was irrepressible and rather well experienced and always bounced back bright and shiny. There was no one else there, and since he lacked any instructions he turned his attention to arranging carnations in a vase, his nimble fingers snapping off the excess stems and pulling away unnecessary leaves.

When Jennifer joined him she was fascinated to see just how unruffled he was by his recent experience. He was dressed in a pale blue pinafore dress that had been left out for him, and it made him look like the Alice in a Lewis Carroll story. He'd scrubbed his teeth until they sparkled, and his hair shone like an autumn halo around his quiet face. There was something else too. There was the same rosy glow about him she'd sometimes noticed in girls after they'd been well and truly shagged.

Unspeaking for a moment she observed the talent the sissy showed in dealing with things of the earth, how daintily and how exquisitely he handled flowers until he'd created an arrangement of splendour. He'd placed the carnations in a vase of the best white china, bulbous at the bottom and slender at the top, and they formed a perfect bouquet.

"That's impressive. It appears you have an aptitude for something after all." she murmured tartly.

Poppy smiled. "You have to think about colours and textures with flowers. It's what's called 'harmony'."

When Miriam joined them she smiled at her daughter. "Be a love and find Poppy a few suitable chores, darling. We're supposed to be assessing his domestic skills as well as his - er - other talents."

She appeared slightly preoccupied, and Jennifer regarded her with suspicion. "It's out of character for you to delegate that kind of thing. Do you have something else to do?"

Her mother smiled. "I intend to have an evening out with Emma, and I'll need most of the day to make arrangements."

Jennifer suddenly looked agitated. As a younger girl she would have stamped her foot, but now she only frowned and paced the floor while glaring at the sissy. "Really mummy! You know very well I've already made plans to visit Monica Braithwaite in the village later. We can't both go out and leave this silly cock-in-a-frock alone in the house. He's not got the sense of a prawn."

Miriam remained unconcerned. "Poppy will be fine for a few hours by himself if he's given something to do, and he'll need to make preparations. I want him to practise some formal housemaid duties when Emma and I return. And I want you to go and see Monica. I want you to ask her to do a favour for me."

"A favour? That could be difficult. You banned her from the grounds recently so you're not her flavour of the month at the moment."

"Nevertheless I want you to ask her. Promise her something. Tell her there will be a lavish reward in return for assisting me."

Miriam returned to her bedroom with a vague smile still lingering about her mouth. She felt no guilt about awarding herself a night out. The past year had been busy and such treats were rare.

"You don't look bad for it though." she told herself in the mirror. A smile wreathed her face, but all the same there was a faint shadow beneath her eyes. "All right," she admitted, pulling a wry face, "I won't deny it. Good food and wine and some time alone with Emma Twist will be a tonic that will do you wonders," she winked at herself, "And there's no knowing where such an evening can lead."

Sighing, she plucked the pins from her hair and allowed it to spill down over her shoulders. Thick and rich, its warm russet colour seemed to infuse with her pale features. Bending her head forward she dug her fingers into the tangled mass, running her hands its entire length, then flicking it upwards so that it settled against her head. It felt good.

Annoyed by the unforeseen ripple in her own plans Miriam's daughter took her spite out on the unfortunate she-boy left in her care. "Stop your stupid 'harmonising' and do something useful, you effeminate little prick. Go and scrub the kitchen floor. Do it on your hands and knees. Servants must learn to do things themselves before being allowed any aids to idleness. After that you can do some dusting and polishing, and then park yourself against the wall until I'm ready to make an inspection."

***

Monica Briathwaite lived in the village of Peasmarsh with her mother. Their cottage was small, comprising two rooms downstairs, with the kitchen and bathroom built into a lean-to at the back. The narrow staircase was hidden behind a door in the wall and wound its way up to two small bedrooms above. Of the downstairs rooms, one had a small table and some chairs while the diminutive sitting-room seemed crowded with an armchair-and-sofa set and a polished veneer sideboard. There was also the lustre of china in a glass-fronted cabinet and a porcelain Staffordshire dog sitting each side of the fireplace.

"Does yer want a cigarette?" asked Rita, perching on the arm of her mothers sofa, oblivious of her shoes kicking against the upholstery.

"You know I don't smoke." replied Jennifer.

"Course you don't. I keep forgetting. Bloody 'ell, I couldn't go without a fag now an' then meself." She picked a crumpled packet from her skirt pocket and drew out a cigarette. "How's things up at the Grange?"

Jennifer bent her head. "Just routine. That's what schools are about; you know, meals, lessons and bedtime. Not much else happens." Monica Braithwaite was a little on the plump side, not spare and lean like Jennifer, and despite being two years older than her visitor she was far less astute and quick witted. Nevertheless she was popular with the village lads who enjoyed her easy nature and the easy route they found between her legs, and popular with Jennifer too, who appreciated the way she unashamedly accepted an occasional girly romp. Jennifer thought her rather overblown, but then anyone not stick-insect thin was overblown to her

Monica lit-up, reclined dramatically on the sofa and languidly turned her head. With a slightly peeved expression spoiling her mouth she sighed and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. "I don't know anything about what 'appens at schools anymore - not since your mam stopped me from 'elping out at weekends."

There was acrimony in her tone, and almost at once a stumbling block had been raised. Monica had been barred from part-time assisting at Fairyfield Grange months ago, how would she react when she learned Jennifer's mother wished a favour?

"You were a little over enthusiastic Monica. You were only supposed to supervise the first-termers in the garden, you weren't supposed to gather them all together for a wanking competition. That encroached on the school rules and you knew that."

Dissatisfaction reverted to a crooked smile as Monica recalled events. "There was always a lovely bloom on their faces when I got 'em to play with 'emselves. Some of 'em could pump up real whoppers."

She drew on her cigarette again as he eyes sought out Lulabelle, the ashen faced she-boy Jennifer had brought with her who had been parked in a corner of the room and told to keep quite. He'd be quite good looking when he filled out, she thought, but he still had a lad's extreme thinness at the moment, with bony wrists protruding from the cuffs of his blouse.

Jennifer thought it could be helpful to lay on a bit of blatant flattery. "You're an exceptional sort of girl Monica. Mummy was very impressed by the way you kept quiet about things you'd seen at the Grange. Most other girls would have been spiteful and blabbed all kinds of horrid stories."

Monica flicked her cigarette at an ashtray, pleased with the words of appreciation, just as the adroit visitor intended her to be. "I keeps me mouth stitched. That's why I gets work with people like Lady Chance-Barton. What I did at the Grange wurn't like a real job that I get paid for, I only did it because I liked it. Shame I couldn't have done it longer though, I never got a chance to smack the bums o' any of them cross-dressed cuties while I was there."

Suddenly the eyes of both girls searched out Lulabelle again. He was eighteen, but like all the 'girls' at Fairyfield constant badgering made him behave younger. Discouraged from thinking for himself, he like the rest relied on females to tell him what to do. Ostensibly he had accompanied Jennifer merely to carry parcels, but that day he was also there to serve an ulterior purpose.

"You can spank Lulabelle if you like." Jennifer offered.

Alarmed, the she-boy spoke for the first time since entering the house. It was just a meek, "Oh, Jennifer!", not designed to be challenging, but the daughter of the headmistress bristled anyway.

"Shut-up pervert, no one told you to speak. Put your thumb in your mouth."

"Gracious, he doesn't need to be naughty. Even before he came to the Grange he'd allow girls to pull him into the bushes and smack his bum for no reason whatever. Sometimes they'd even sit on his face and force him to suck the gusset of their knickers."

"Please Jennifer, that's not true." Lulabelle suddenly blurted out indignantly. Jennifer at once turned and swung the flat of her hand at the side of his head. "That's your second warning, you effeminate wanker. Anymore talking out of turn will earn you the strap when we return to the Grange."

Returning to Monica she laid on a beguiling smile. "I promised to get some chrome buttons for Margaret Pardoe whilst I'm in the village, so I'll need to be sharp to catch the haberdashers before they close."

Monica smirked. "If you're thinkin' o' going on the chase after that snooty Polly Clagget who works there, don't waste yer time. Her mam watches her like a hawk, and the stuck-up floozy don't give anything to lads, never mind lasses."

"Why Monica, even when my intentions are pure you always reckon me to be on the prowl. Look I need to be quick, so can I leave Lulabelle here for a while?"

Monica rolled her tongue in her mouth while casting an unwholesome glance at the pretty boy - his sweet face - his short skirt and bare legs. "Leave 'im here? Why o' course, but I thought you brought 'im to carry for you."

"Creatures like him are a nuisance when a girl's in a hurry, they get distracted and wander off all the time to sissy about in front of men. Personally I think they should have a collar and leash when taken out on excursions, but mummy won't allow it." Monica wasn't observant enough to notice the glint in Jennifer's eyes, but Jennifer was astute enough to know the village girl would need some buttering-up before she'd agree to do a favour, and allowing her access to a cute, puny sissy angel such as Lulabelle was an ideal for that.

Lulabelle felt some relief that Jennifer had left him behind. She wasn't at all pleasant to be with, and he'd had enough of having his ears cuffed, but as soon as she'd gone through the door Monica wheeled about and latched her eyes onto him, making him feel uncertain of her own motives for allowing him to stay. He gazed at her, an ingénue of half open lips and a soulful expression.

"You didn't belief what Jennifer said about me, did you Monica? I mean, those girls that used to grab me and spank me in the bushes - they MADE me suck their knickers."

Taking hold of him she sat him down beside herself on the sofa, and pressed her lips hard against his unsuspecting mouth, making him shudder as she kissed him deeply and used her tongue. When she drew back her mouth flashed a smile that was not reflected in her eyes, instead there was a glint of something seen in the gaze of a predator regarding its prey as she observed the smooth thighs protruding from beneath his all too short skirt. Ignoring the she-boys alarm she laid him down on his back and quickly had his knickers down to his knees.

"Wow! I can see the outline of a nice knob-end under the skin of yer willy. She squeezed close up against his legs and reached out, making the boy utter a mild squawk as her fingers took hold of his prick and began to jiggle it.

"Oh no, aah! You mustn't..."

"Dunna make a fuss sweetie, else I'll have to smack yer bummy like Jennifer says I'm allowed to do. Let's have a proper look at you, let me slide the skin back while I cuddle yer balls. "Mm yes! You's got a sturdy thing, nice knob - nice an' red and smooth. Shall I rub yer pretty cock for you? You like to 'ave it rubbed, don't you? I want to see it grow, and I want to watch it squirt."

Things do change quickly, she mused. Earlier in the year she'd been taken on to oversee the first-termers on a Sunday; to shepherd them about and stop them getting into mischief whist roaming the grounds of the school. For her it had been a pleasant occupation, if an unpaid one, but then she'd developed a liking for gathering half a dozen of the sissy lambs together behind the beech hedge to give them lessons in tongue-kissing. After demonstrating how it should be done with each of them she'd then encouraged them to practise among themselves, and she'd told them just how much nicer it would feel if they wanked each other whilst they did it. Unfortunately, stuffy old Miss Hancock hadn't appreciated what she'd done and she'd sacked her.

Lulabelle's cock had swollen the moment she'd wrapped her hand around it and started to roll his silky foreskin up and down over his dewy knob-end. He was soon twisting his head from side to side and groaning frantically. "You mustn't rub me like that," he protested, but Monica merely smiled whilst increasing the speed of her caressing, stroking beneath his plump balls as she pumped his cock.

Lulabelle's eyes grew large and round. "Monica - Monica - you're going to make me - going to make me..."

"Yer knob's gettin' slick an' shiny. Does that mean yer gunna blow? Is ya gunna do a big wet-one for Monica? Try yer best, 'cos Monica likes to see lots of goo flying when she yanks on a cock."

He manipulations were expertly applied, and the she-boy unsuccessfully tried to stifle his moans as his stiff flesh twitched. "Oooh-oh - OOOH! - and abruptly a splash of grey-white ejaculate leapt from his firm red tip to loop over the girls fingers.